


powerful statements

by meios



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 13:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3175058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meios/pseuds/meios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"cullen, don't."</p>
            </blockquote>





	powerful statements

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amusewithaview](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusewithaview/gifts).



> a fill for this prompt from the kink meme:
> 
> "I saw the reverse of this prompt on here a while back: jealous!Quiz stakes a claim on Cullen to scare off his admirers, but! The Inquisitor is a very powerful person, and it seems like power is the key to getting Orlesian hearts to go all aflutter. I would really like to see an Inquisitor who is having a hard time getting shit done at Halamshiral because of all the admirers and hangers-on who want to talk to HER. Maybe it starts off political, but the Inquisitor is so adorable/beautiful/bashful that the nobles of Orlais start wanting to hunt for some more… personal favors/attention? Either way, Cullen notices and gets jealous. Stakes his claim through a dance or maybe just by doing something borderline shocking by Orlesian standards.
> 
> +100 for Leliana facepalming at the social gaffe.  
> +1,000 for Josephine intercepting him and advising him on how to intervene without COMPLETELY mucking up their plans - don't care whether or not he follows her advice."

“Cullen, don’t.”  
  
He hasn’t done anything yet, why is she looking at him as if he’s about to do something? He shrugs her off and returns to his place near the terrace door, silent, offering pleasantries only when forced to, his gaze somewhere else, across the room.  _Maker_ , he thinks, and that is, really, the only word that makes sense right now.  
  
She is beautiful, as always, but even more so under the golden lights of Halamshiral, her dress a deep emerald, hiding bound feet and more scars than most could ever count. It sweeps from her shoulders, leaving them bare, the  _vallaslin_  of, who was it, Mythal, he believes, declaring her origins, her kin; the tattoo on her face, long green branches twisting beneath her eyes, across her forehead, down to the center of her chin, is hidden by a golden mask that resembles an owl. The jagged mark over her right eye is hidden, too. She has never explained it, never spoken of it. And she is good at this, too. She mingles while searching, holding her cards close to her, her friends even closer, and not a single hair on her half-shaved head is out of place as she does it all.  
  
It’s like magic, he supposes. Fitting.  
  
“Commander,” she greets, a nod, a warm smile, and it’s all too soon, all too much, and he moves to take her hand, brush his knuckles against it in a show of respect—of  _longing_ —and her smile only seems to grow a little. Barely noticeable. Played well. But then she’s moving closer, whispering, “Have you noticed anything?”  
  
Cullen shakes his head, sneaking a squeeze of her hand, an anchoring touch, as he replies, “Everyone is in masks and they are all playing ‘the Game’. Do not trust anyone here, Inquisitor. Even if they’re not the assassin, they still play ’til death.” _Or glory_ , he mentally adds, eyes catching a passing nobleman give her an appraising look, one of hunger. His brow furrows. “Flidais,” he murmurs before she turns, “please be careful.”  
  
And she smirks at that, and he swears to himself that a spark bursts behind her eyes. “Why, I’m always careful, Commander,” she quips, disappearing into the crowd, nodding once in greeting and offering her hand to the same man that had just passed.  
  
It continues, though. He had somewhat expected this, though: she is a powerful woman, a formidable mage. She ended the mage rebellion, sealed the Breach; she has an army behind her, a kind heart, a sense of humor that continuously leaves him breathless with laughter, and yet—  
  
They find her  _exotic_. They find her to be a  _trophy_. Someone will brag to another,  _I fucked the Herald of Andraste_ , and there would be no end to it, regardless of what Leliana attempted to do. But no, she has no interest in them. Cullen can tell from the rather stiff body language, the small frown on her lips as the man leans in to whisper into her ear. She looks in his direction from behind her mask, anger growing within her eyes, and he honestly feels sorry for the next person to attack her as she sneaks her way through the castle, her armor hidden, her staff at a dead drop.  
  
The offers for dances seem to be never-ending, as well, for every time the players so much as brush their instruments, men and women practically trip over themselves to find Flidais. The ones she says  _yes_  to are always at the beginning of fairly short routines: a few twirls to show off the gown, gossip on the floor, wandering hands that Flidais continuously corrects.  
  
They find her  _exotic_. He finds them  _revolting_.  
  
And Josephine  _knows_ , and tells him over and over to not dare do what he’s thinking of doing, to which he just shrugs, takes a sip of the wine she offers him, but only a sip, nothing more. The nobles of Orlais don’t respect her, don’t respect her cause,  _their_  cause: “the Game” has only clouded their judgment, soiled the prizes they sow.  
  
“Then tell me how to do something  _without_  causing an international fiasco,” he snaps, pauses as she raises an eyebrow at him, scrubbing a gloved hand over his face. “Forgive me. I am just… unable to take this any longer.”  
  
He’s never pegged himself as a jealous man. Perhaps it isn’t jealousy at all that boils in his stomach, mixed with fury: they touch her, kiss her, follow her as if they own her, as if she’s just another silly slave playing dress up for them. He’d promised to protect her, promised to see her through this, had kissed her softly, privately on the journey to Halamshiral.  
  
She had bitten her lip and wrapped a small piece of golden fabric around his wrist, tied it in a knot. And he had asked her what it was, and she had answered,  _a token, ma vhenan, a reminder that we’re rather stuck with each other_. They had laughed quietly. He had asked her to explain.  _Well_ , she’d murmured, drawing a finger down his cheek, smirking,  _all of those beautiful people there, who knows if one may… drift?_  
  
It had been a joke, and obvious one, as the moment the question left her mouth, she snorted, and he’d kissed her giggling mouth again.  
  
“A lone dance,” she supplies after a moment, eyes on her little sister as she, too, mingles. “Customary for one like the Inquisitor when one has another whom they trust. Grand Duke Gaspard has already done so with his lead strategist.” Josephine glances sideways at him, and he frowns just a little more. “Stop,” she admonishes. “To dance with the commander of her army would be a powerful statement, indeed.”  
  
“I don’t—”  
  
“ _Try_ , Commander.”  
  
Cullen closes his mouth, looks towards the doors to the vestibule as they open and close, Flidais approaching the railing with her head held high, dark hair barely ghosting over her shoulders.  
  
A woman sweeps her up in conversation immediately.  
  
“Tell the players, then,” he mutters, straightening his spine and his coat, the sigil of the Inquisition stitched onto his left sleeve, the blackness of the fabric playing nicely with the emerald of Flidais’ gown. “I will ask Her Worship to dance.”  
  
Josephine looks as if she does not trust him still, but he walks away with a minor bounce in his step, pride welling up in his chest as he stands tall. For this is just another battle, just another war, but one fought with poison and words, rather than shields and magic. And even from this far away, Cullen can tell how uncomfortable the Inquisitor is in the center of a small circle, closing in upon her like predators to their prey.  
  
“Excuse me, my Lady Inquisitor,” he says when he arrives, boots heavy upon the rug. The nobles stare at him, something that he ignores. Flidais eyes him carefully, though, worry coloring her features for a moment, no doubt expecting terrible news, an emergency; this changes, though, when she notes his crooked smile, one tip of his mouth curled up.  
  
“Yes, Commander?” she responds, playing her part well, voice soft, her presence returning with the others at bay. She offers the hand with the anchor, opposite of the one that has been offered for the rest. He kisses her knuckles and this, this dance of their own, is a game in its own right. Silent amusement, stolen kisses, private laughter.  
  
“I was hoping that you would join me for a dance?”  
  
 _I don’t dance_ , he’d said apologetically before, maybe a few hours ago, and she had appeared disappointed, but had respected his comfort, dropping the topic altogether. Her eyebrows barely peer over the edge of her mask, but she takes his hand nonetheless, allowing her to be led away.  
  
“I thought you didn’t dance,” she murmurs to him. There is an announcement for the dance floor to be cleared, and he leads her down the stairs, silent, towards the middle. This is just another battle, another war; he does not break promises like these to people he cares about. He will win, he will be truthful.  
  
He says, “I’ve suddenly learned,” and her responding chuckle is enough to ease the tension that the night has brought upon them. For this moment, they are two people dancing, unnamed, hidden behind masks of their own, invisible and tangible at the same time.  
  
She reaches up to fix his mask, one that, funnily, resembles a lion, and he takes the opportunity to rest his hand on her waist, taking the marked hand in his other. She touches his arm, and she smiles, open and real, and  _Maker_ , he thinks, and it’s the only word that seems to make sense.  
  
The music begins, and she leads him in small circles around the dance floor, grinning brightly when he takes the initiative to spin her, to let go of her hand so as to let her spin out, only to return. And they are simply two people that care about each other, dancing at a grand ball.  
  
The dancing, the talks, the fighting: Flidais does things effortlessly, at least in this setting, and though Cullen has heard tales of her falling from mountains, landing unceremoniously on her ass in a desperate attempt at plucking crystal grace from a ledge, he stands by his belief, firmly.  
  
“You’re wonderful,” she murmurs, a sigh of a praise as he pulls her a bit closer at the crescendo, allowing her to spin once more before he rests his hand at the small of her back. He dips the Inquisitor, a squeak of surprise escaping her mouth, and the music fades as he grins down at her, forgetting his place, where they are, everything, leans in and kisses her.  
  
She has a hand on his cheek. Magic twitches just below the surface.  
  
There is applause, and he pulls away, eyes wide and embarrassed laughter overtaking any words that he could offer. He leads her off the dance floor, up the stairs, and oh, Leliana is hiding her face behind her hand, shaking her head, and Josephine looks just about ready to murder, but Flidais is grinning at him, tugging him down for a final kiss on the cheek before excusing herself.  
  
No one approaches her like hunters as she goes.  
  
“ _Commander_ ,” and he could shrug her off, but he decides not to, turning to face the ambassador as she grinds out, “I never told you to  _kiss_  her.”  
  
“Ah, well, Lady Montilyet, that was my mistake.”  
  
She glares, but there is still some approval there, a slight, reluctant twitch of the lips. “You are lucky that you made such an impression,” she mutters, disappearing into the crowd once more, most likely intent on finding he sister.  
  
Cullen returns to his place near the terrace door, leaning against a statue, silent.


End file.
